


On the Mountain, Dark and Red

by MirandaTam



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, In a way, Post-alqualonde, Post-kinslaying, Rebuilding, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaTam/pseuds/MirandaTam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stories – that’s what they have to be, for Nerdanel to not shatter like a piece of marble hit in the wrong place – the stories come out slowly. Alqualondë, the blood of the Falmari that stained the docks and the waves; the smoke rising over the horizon, the ships, the ships they had killed to obtain, burning to ash on the wrong side of the sea; Ñolofinwe, Findaráto and Artanis and all the rest, turning north to the Helcaraxë.</p>
<p>“Nobody blames you,” Arafinwë says when he sees her. “We all know how Fëanáro gets, how he can’t be turned away, no matter what. Nobody blames you.”</p>
<p>My sons are kinslayers, Nerdanel wants to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Mountain, Dark and Red

It’s too quiet, afterwards.

Nerdanel wants there to be weeping, screaming, shouting – anything, really, other than the silence that seems to be almost echoing through the streets of Tirion.

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised – there are under a hundred Noldor who refused to follow the sons of Finwë, and about that many again who returned with Arafinwë to beg forgiveness.

The stories – that’s what they have to be, for Nerdanel to not shatter like a piece of marble hit in the wrong place – the stories come out slowly. Alqualondë, the blood of the Falmari that stained the docks and the waves; the smoke rising over the horizon, the ships, the ships they had killed to obtain, burning to ash on the wrong side of the sea; Ñolofinwe, Findaráto and Artanis and all the rest, turning north to the Helcaraxë.

“Nobody blames you,” Arafinwë says when he sees her. “We all know how Fëanáro gets, how he can’t be turned away, no matter what. Nobody blames you.”

_My sons are kinslayers,_ Nerdanel wants to say.

Besides that, Arafinwë is lying; plenty of people blame Nerdanel. She’s visible, is the main problem; the last member of Fëanáro’s house still in Aman, standing tall and sharp, her hair reflecting the torches that now light the streets of Tirion, flame-red. People curse at her in the street, people who she’s never met, people who she’s known her whole life. Worse than them, though, are the ones who flinch away, who see her bright red hair and her dressed in Fëanáro’s colors and feel fear.

_How dare you_ , she wants to tell her husband, _how dare you drag my sons into your murder? How dare you make my sons’ features something to fear?_

As Isil waxes and wanes in the sky, so do her commissions. Half of those remaining want nothing to do with her, it appears, and she cannot fully blame them. The other half – well.

The Vanyar remember how to mourn, have entire festivals for mourning kin lost across the seas in the sundering. Nerdanel expects that the Falmari are rediscovering their mourning traditions, just as the Noldor are, here in this land that had no death until her husband came and ruined it. But there are a few – almost half the Noldor now, and _that_ certainly feels bitter – who came from Endoré, who made the Great Journey from Cuiviénen.

They, at least, remember how the craftsmen of the elves mourn best.

“Work,” they say, “and in working either remember or forget. But don’t stagnate. Don’t fade over him,” they say, since even though her entire family is still alive at this point in time (she hopes), they are dead to Aman, dead to the Noldor.

She does not know if they are dead to her, but she doesn’t mind having something to do.

_A marble picture-frame – a statue in miniature, of a sister crossing the ice – a family portrait, done all in stone, the gaps where family members are missing clear as day–_

Isil wanes and waxes, and this is not enough.

Nerdanel leaves – leaves the finished commissions outside her house for their owners to take, packs a bag with a few basic necessities, and leaves.

It is dark outside, darker than it has ever been, but Isil is nearing fullness and so at least she can see her steps.

She finds a piece of soapstone in her pocket and turns it over and over in her hands as she walks. It wants to be shaped; all stones do, really. The trick is listening to them closely enough to hear what they want to be shaped into.

(It’s too dark to see what color the stone is. Too dark to see the color of almost anything, really; Isil’s light shows that the trees are green and that the ground is getting paler, but not much else.)

Fëanáro was no stone. Nerdanel did not know how to find his flaws, his strengths, his shape; despite that, or maybe because of it, she loved him. She’d known her sons better, or so she’d thought.

The trees open up, rather suddenly, and then the ground beneath her is sand rather than dirt, and the sea stretches out in front of her, pitch black save for where the waves reflect the now-waning Isil or the stars.

There is singing coming from a distance away, from Alqualondë.

Nerdanel cannot make herself walk away, but neither can she permit herself to walk closer. Not to where her sons had become kinslayers.

Instead she sits, just short of where the waves reach, and takes out her tools to begin shaping the soapstone.

It still will not tell her quite what it wants to be; something curved, she is sure, but it’s being awfully secretive, for a soapstone. Or maybe she’s just not listening properly.

She breathes deeply, slowly, paitently, like stone. The sea helps; perhaps this is why the Falmari like it so much, the unrelenting rhythm, the many different sounds acting as one.

The singing reaches a crescendo before dying down, slowly, slowly quieting, until nothing is left but the crash of the waves and the sea-birds and Nerdanel, sitting there on the sand, shaping her stone.

It takes a long time for her to notice that it is lighter than it should be.

She knows what the Aulendil are trying to make, so that it is happening at all is no surprise. Now, though, with her on the shore of the sea...

Nerdanel does not look up to watch Anor rise for the first time. Instead, she watches the sea turn blue, and wonders if it would have been stained red had Anor risen sooner.

 

There is someone walking towards her, she realizes, one – she supposes it is a day, after Anor has set once and risen again. She can hear it in the shift of the sand, in the splash of the surf when the Teler doesn’t move to avoid the incoming waves.

She doesn’t turn to look.

The Teler comes to stand beside her, in silence for a while. Nerdanel doesn’t find it particularly hard to resist the temptation to look; she doesn’t want to see the hate or (worse) the fear on the Teler’s face.

“You’re going to have to move if you want to keep avoiding the waves,” the Teler says.

Nerdanel looks out towards the water. It is much closer than it had been when she sat down.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and does not move. She sands down the soapstone a bit. She still can’t tell what it is.

“Why are you making a fishhook?” the girl – the voice is that of a girl, probably barely of age – asks.

Nerdael looks at her work from a few different angles. “It doesn’t really look like a fishhook,” she says. “I can’t imagine any fish would be tricked, at least.” _Were my sons like a fishhook? How close did they get before the Falmari realized that there was danger?_

“Well, no,” the girl says. “It’s a decorative one. But it’s clearly a fishhook, you see?”

“I suppose,” Nerdanel says, and glances up at the girl.

The colors are the first thing she sees; patterned blue and yellow, alternated in curling patterns across her loose top. Then the silver of her hair; if the clothes hadn’t marked her for a Teler, that more than anything else would have. A grey-and-yellow skirt far shorter than Nerdanel is used to, revealing blue leggings that stretch down almost to her bare sand-covered feet. This girl is as much a Teler as it is possible to be while not literally standing on a boat.

“I’m Súriwen,” the girl says, “Who are you?” and Nerdanel looks down.

They stand in silence for a while, Súriwen clearly waiting for a reply that will not come.

“Okay,” Súriwen says, sitting down next to her. “I’ll just call you Eveló for now.”

If from her hair and her stonecarving Súriwen can’t realize her identity–

“You should not be calling me anything,” Nerdanel says. “Your parents should have told you to stay away from all Noldor. Especially red-headed ones.”

“My parents are dead,” Súriwen says calmly, and Nerdanel freezes for a moment, before looking up into the Teler’s brown eyes.

“I am sorry,” Nerdanel says quietly.

“Your sons killed them, if I am not mistaken,” Súriwen continues.

Nerdanel closes her eyes. “I am sorry,” she repeats. _I do not know what else to do,_ she wants to say. _This is not some piece of stone that I can carve, some crack that I can fix, no matter how hard I try. I do not know what else to do._

The two sit silently by the shore for a while, as Anor makes its second trek across the sky. Nerdanel’s legs become damp with sea-water as the waves draw nearer; Súriwen’s outstretched feet have been wet since long before she came to sit by Nerdanel.

“So,” Súriwen says eventually, as Anor is beginning to set over the sea. “Are you any good with metalwork?”

“What?” Nerdanel needs to run the question through her head a few times; she’s never been good with abrupt changes of topic. “I have some skill, yes, though not as much as–” she takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

Súriwen flashes her a bright smile. “Good! Follow me.”

She stands, and Nerdanel automatically stands with her, following as she walks along the shore. “Where are we going?”

“To my home,” Súriwen says. “I’ve got some old hooks and pulleys and the like that have needed repair for a while now, and you look like you need some sleep before you fall over.”

Nerdanel stops. “I don’t think I’ll be exactly welcome in any Falmari village, Súriwen.”

Súriwen looks back at Nerdanel. “This will be my first time going back home since the Kinslaying,” she says bluntly, “And I don’t want to fall asleep in a quiet house.”

Nerdanel’s words stick in her throat. She nods, and follows Súriwen down the shoreline.

 

The Teleri that don’t live in Alqualondë build their houses from wood, for the most part; Súriwen’s village, _Calcamba_ , she calls it, is much the same.

They don’t sleep on the low beds that lie in the back rooms of Súriwen’s home. Instead, the girl takes out two cloth contraptions and attaches them to the walls of the front room.

“They don’t look very safe,” Nerdanel says.

“You’ve never slept in a hammock before?” Súriwen asks, incredulous, and shakes her head. “They’re perfectly safe, though they can be a little tricky to get into. Come on.”

Nerdanel doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to sleep in something as… as _flimsy_ as a hammock. But Súriwen asked her to come here, so she wouldn’t have to fall asleep alone. She asked _Nerdanel_ to come here, after all that her family had done. So Nerdanel makes an effort, and climbs into the hammock (with Súriwen’s help) and tries to make herself comfortable.

It’s easier than she expected, with the hammock holding her steady almost like a hug, and with the roar of the sea in the background, and Súriwen’s breathing quieting as she falls into a deep slumber.

Nerdanel rests, though she doesn’t sleep except for brief snatches of lost time. Meditating, sleeping – the main difference is that for one, her mind stays in the present. She has flashes of dreams, but only flashes, Tyelkormo’s bright hair turning into the light of Anor as Nerdanel realizes that it is the next day.

Súriwen is still asleep, and not likely to wake soon; Nerdanel can tell that much from her time as a parent.

Her mystery carving – her fishhook – is in her bag, waiting for its finishing touches. Nerdanel carefully, carefully climbs out of the hammock, only almost falling twice, and sits down on the floor to finish her work.

Now, in the relative light of Anor, Súriwen’s house is an open book to Nerdanel. The house has four rooms in total, two of them with beds; one for the parents and one for the children. Súriwen has a sibling, going by the number of beds in the second room. Nerdanel hopes that they aren’t dead.

The room that she and Súriwen slept in is decorated; there are woven hangings and woodcarvings of various scenes and people. The final room, Nerdanel had assumed to be a craft-room, but though there are some knives in a block, no other tools or materials are readily visible.

In all of the rooms are hung seashells on strings, along with small pieces of glass and the occasional silver bead. When the wind blows through the house, they clink and chime together, almost like tiny bells.

Nerdanel hears movement behind her, and turns; Anor’s light has reached Súriwen’s face, waking her.

“Did you sleep well?” Nerdanel asks her softly once Súriwen has actually opened her eyes.

“Better,” Súriwen says, and yawns. “Have you gotten yourself breakfast?”

Nerdanel frowns in confusion. “From where? I didn’t see a hall outside last night, though I suppose I might have missed it.”

“Why would there be a hall?” Súriwen asks.

“For taking your meals in,” Nerdanel says slowly.

Súriwen yawns again. “We usually just eat in the kitchen,” she says.

It’s a strange meal – the Noldor, even in the city, eat together in large halls, and breakfast is always a large meal. Here, Súriwen explains, dinner is the large meal, and the only meal taken in a group larger than a few people is lunch.

This Falma girl is quite possibly the strangest person Nerdanel has ever met.

“You had some metalwork you wanted me to look at,” Nerdanel says when they’re done eating.

Súriwen nods. “Hinges and fastenings, mostly,” she explains, leading Nerdanel through the front room. “Our dock is about to start getting–” Súriwen pauses and looks back. “You can come outside, you know.”

Nerdanel has frozen inside the doorway. “I will not be welcome here,” she says quietly. “You will not – Súriwen. You have brought into your village a – a Noldo, the wife and mother of kinslayers. I cannot…” she squeezes her eyes shut and takes a dep breath. “I would not put these people through any more pain. And there will be pain at my presence here.”

There is silence for a long moment. And then Nerdanel realizes – it is _silent_ , save for the crashing of the waves and the tinkling of the chimes and the faint calls of birds.

“It’s been over a year, you know,” Súriwen says. “Though – the length of years might be different now. But still. It’s been over a year, and still everyone remains in Alqualondë. They remain with their songs and their mourning and the red-stained docks. But now it’s been over a year, and we’re starting to… not move on. Rebuild, maybe?” She shakes her head. “We need to start regular fishing again, and tending to the ocean and the beaches. I volunteered to come back here and make sure everything was working.” She smiles faintly, a little bitterly. “I’ve never really… never really liked the city. Too many crowds for me. But it wasn’t until I was walking down the shore that I realized I didn’t want to be alone.”

“And then you saw me,” Nerdanel says quietly.

Suriwen smiles again. “Let me show you what needs to be fixed,” she says, and takes Nerdanel’s hand.

 

“ _Calcamba_ ,” Nerdanel says one day, after she’s checked and double-checked the bolts and rings on the dock, scrubbed the rust off the ones that could be salvaged, and borrowed the village silversmith’s forge to piece together some of what couldn’t be.

“… yes?” Súriwen says. “That is this village’s name.”

“I don’t know what it means,” Nerdanel says, frustrated. “Something to do with a hand?”

Súriwen blinks. “But… you know Telerin. That’s what we’ve been speaking in.”

“I know tradesman’s Telerin,” Nerdanel corrects. “And for any word I don’t know, I supplement a Noldorin or Vanyarin one. But it’s not exactly like I can do the process in reverse.”

“Huh,” Súriwen says. “Well, camba is a hand, like this, see…” she cups her hand, like she’s holding something, or maybe giving something away. “And calca is glass.”

Her husband’s–

Nerdanel takes a deep breath and relaxes her grip on the rivet she’s holding. “Calca,” she says, quietly and to herself “Glass.” Then, louder, “Why is your village called that, then?”

Súriwen grins. “Now _that_ is a story,” she says. “Follow me!” She springs up from where she’s been sitting and starts walking off.

“But–” Nerdanel protests. “But work!”

“Work can wait!” Súriwen calls back. “Stories first!”

Nerdanel sighs, then gets up and follows her.

“I don’t know if you heard about it, or even got some of it,” Súriwen starts explaining when Nerdanel catches up to her. “It was before I was born, and I don’t know how old you are?” There’s a pause where Nerdanel doesn’t reply. “Anyway, maybe four centuries ago, people were just beginning to plan a village here. And as they were building, they found a stream where the water flowed in such a way as to carve the sand into what looked to be little hands – little cambai. Here, see?”

It is a beautiful stream, with beach-grass growing on its banks in places, and like Súriwen had said, the little hands of sand. But – Nerdanel kneels down and dips her hand in the water.

“There was a lightning storm,” Súriwen explains. “A big one. And lightning struck the ground in many places, but especially along the stream.”

“And it turned the sand to glass,” Nerdanel murmurs, feeling the smoothness beneath the water. “Calcamba.” Four hundred years ago – she frowns, then stands up sharply, lost in memory.

“What’s your word, then?”

Súriwen’s voice brings her back to the present.

“What?”

“What’s your word,” Súriwen repeats. “For glass. We’ve been using Vanyarin for that word. What to the Noldor call it?”

“Rillë,” Nerdanel says. “I have a nice – half-grand-niece – named for it. Itarillë.”

Súriwen frowns. “Ita…”

“In Telerin…” Nerdanel thinks for a minute. “Éde?”

“No, that’s the proper noun, for the Vala. But I see the meaning now.” Súriwen grins at her. “This is fun. I like languages.”

At that moment, there’s a sound like a horn, coming from the dock.

Súriwen gasps. “They’re here! Finally!”

Nerdanel can feel the blood draining from her face. “Other people are coming?”

Súriwen pauses, and looks back at Nerdanel. “I completely forgot to warn you, didn’t I?”

Nerdanel nods faintly.

“You don’t need to worry,” Súriwen reassures her. “I sent off a letter explaining that I’d encountered a Noldo who felt sorry for the actions of her kin and was helping me out.” She pauses. “Was that okay?”

“Yes,” Nerdanel says, and sighs. “Better than no warning for them. You should probably go tell them who I actually am, though. Before they see my hair and panic.”

“Probably,” Súriwen says. “I’ll go, uh. Do that now, then?”

Nerdanel raises an eyebrow and nods. Súriwen speeds off.

Honestly, it’s like having a young Tyelkormo in the house again.

… Excet Tyelkormo is now a murderer. A kinslayer.

She sits down by the stream again, and reaches in to feel the glass. The smoothness of the glass, the slight chill of the water, both help clear her mind.

Four hundred years ago. She wants to laugh, and maybe punch Fëanáro in the face. Instead, she focuses on the water running over her hands, ever towards the sea.

“Nerdanel!”

She looks up. Súriwen is waving at her; four other Teleri stand a little behind her. Even from a distance, Nerdanel can tell that they look nervous.

She looks down at the stream again. Glass hands. Calcamba. Cupped hands – hands that are giving something away, giving a gift.

Nerdanel stands, and goes to meet those her family has wronged, and wonders if she should mention Fëanáro’s ‘discovery’ of glass, the one that occurred only two hundred years ago.

 

Alpalata is as tall as Nerdanel, and her hair shines silver, lighter even than Súriwen’s, almost white. Every time she looks at Nerdanel, her eyes narrow and she frowns. She has good reason to; her lover was slain on the docks.

Vilverin is small but as excitable as Súriwen. His dark hair is tied back in two long tails, where it flutters out behind him like the butterfly he was named for (as Súriwen explains to Nerdanel). His bright blue eyes – brighter even than the sea, as bright as the sky now that Anor sits in it – flinch away from her some times he notices her. Nerdanel cannot help but think how brave he is, that he does not do it more often.

Volayon’s hair is sandy, and he makes no pretense but avoids her whenever possible. There are sword-scars on his arm and shoulder.

Orna… Orna is a bit of a mystery. She is absolutely tiny, only coming up to Nerdanel’s elbow, yet she is clearly full-grown. She does not avoid Nerdanel, nor glare at her, or any of the other things. She simply… treats Nerdanel normally, in her odd, quiet way. Her hair is the light brown of tree-bark, and she wears it down, not twisted partially up the way Noldor do nor tied back in tails and braids the way the Teleri do. Instead, she ties in small beads, beads of shell and stone and glass. Nerdanel cannot get up the courage to ask about them.

It goes on like that for a week and a half, as Nerdanel finishes repairing what she can and makes a list of what needs to be replaced and who to go to to get the best quality.

When that’s done, she sits around for another day, staring at the shore and the sky, before going to gather her things.

She’s… surprised by how much she’s accumulated. Isil has gone through a cycle and then half again since she first came to the shore, and three-quarters of a cycle since Súriwen found her and took her to Calcamba.

Three-quarters of a cycle of Isil, and yet she has two new sets of clothing in the Telerin style, given to her by Vilverin after she got too many sea-stains and burns on her working clothes to be repaired. She has wind-chimes carved from shells and glass and silver, a gift from Súriwen after she explained that the Noldor had no such things, despite their near omnipresence in the Telerin village. She even has a small bag of hair-ties that Alpalata had reluctantly shared with her, voicing her disgruntled confusion as to how Noldor could keep their hair in place with only clips and pins. And, of course, she has all the small things she’s carved and shaped during her time here – the original soapstone fishhook, a small copper gull, a spiraling fractal of silver, and many more.

She writes a short note to Súriwen. She can’t – if she says her farewell in person, Súriwen will ask her to stay, and Nerdanel knows that she can’t do that. She leaves the fishhook on top of the note, and then turns and hikes away up the beach, towards the distant hills. Towards Tirion.

“What, no note for me?” Orna asks from behind her.

Nerdanel jumps and turns. “I was just–”

“Leaving, yes, I saw,” Orna says agreeably. “Do you mind if I walk with you for a time?”

Nerdanel shrugs, then turns back towards the hills and continues walking.

Orna easily keeps pace, despite the height difference.

They continue on that way for a while, as Anor creeps down the sky. Just before it touches the horizon, Orna speaks.

“Did you know, I had some friends I left behind in Endoré?”

Nerdanel freezes. “Left behind?”

Orna glances over at her, blue eyes playful, and continues walking. “Nobody told you? Yes, I was born there. My first memories are of the Mountains of Mist.”

Nerdanel’s eyes widen. She had known Orna was old, but not _that_ old.

“It was different there. Very different. Good in some ways. Bad in others. Different.” Orna shrugs. “Not as peaceful as people want you to believe, either.”

“The Hunter in the Dark,” Nerdanel says quietly.

Orna shakes her head. “Yes. But also, elves would get into disagreements. Usually there were rules, for the fights to solve the disagreements. It happened only a few times that I remember, but more, I heard, at the Place of Awakening. We were too tired from travelling, I think.”

Nerdanel can barely find her voice. “There’s a difference between arguing and–” She breaks off. There aren’t even words to describe what her family has done.

“Yes,” Orna agrees. “There is. But you bear no blame for it.”

“I do, though,” Nerdanel says. “I bear the blame for not having stopped it. And even if I did not… the Noldor are a people to be feared, now, are we not? Not to be trusted, for fear we might draw a sword at a disagreement.”

Orna is quiet for a while, and Nerdanel decides to just continue walking.

“Why did you help us, then?” Orna asks after a time.

“There is nothing I can do to make up for the sins of my family,” Nerdanel says. “So I must do what little I can to help the survivors. Yet I am not welcome, so I will not burden them with my presence any longer.”

“You’ve thought about this,” Orna remarks.

“Quite a bit,” Nerdanel admits.

The trees are growing taller around them – not scraggly beach-dwelling trees, but a forest. The ground is true soil now, and it feels odd to stand on it after having walked so long on sand.

“This is where I leave you,” Orna says. “But you are not so unwelcome in Calcamba as you might think. Remember that.” She pauses, looking hesitant. “You should hear this news before you return to Tirion. We received word, just before we left Alqualondë.”

“Word of what?” Nerdanel says. _More Noldor leaving? Some new atrocity? Or–_

“News from the halls of Mandos,” Orna says softly.

Nerdanel takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, centering herself. She’s prepared for this outcome, in her heart. “Fëanáro.”

She can almost hear Orna hesitate, and it puts her off balance.

Nerdanel opens her eyes and frowns. “No?”

“No,” Orna says quietly. “I… no.”

“Who?” Nerdanel asks.

Orna sighs. “Telufinwë Ambarto.”

There is a roaring in Nerdanel’s ears, and not that of the sea. “Oh,” she says faintly, and sits down hard on the ground. _Telvo._

Orna kneels down beside her and says something then, in a language Nerdanel does not know, then repeats it in one she does. “I sorrow for your sorrow.”

Nerdanel’s throat is dry. “You are not sorry that one of the murderers of your people is dead.”

“No,” Orna agrees. “But I am sorry that you are sad.”

_I do not know what I feel._ Nerdanel nods woodenly and turns away. “I should continue on.”

“Here,” Orna says, and holds out a small object for Nerdanel.

Nerdanel cups her hand to receive it; it is a small hand, wrought of glass. A hair-charm, like Orna’s.

“You are hardly universally disliked among the Teleri,” Orna says. “You are always welcome to return to Calcamba.”

“Do you miss them?” Nerdanel asks suddenly. “Your friends, in Endoré?”

“Every day,” Orna says. “We all made our own choices, though, and I would have regretted staying more. But I wonder also if they miss me, and are mad at me for leaving them behind.”

“I…” Nerdanel shakes her head. “I am sorry,” she says, and turns and walks away.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Súriwen – from Quenya “súrë” (wind) and “wen” (maiden)
> 
> Eveló – from Telerin “eve” (a person, someone (unnamed)) and Telerin “ló” (pool, bathing-place, esp. water left in a rocky hollow by receding tide) (maybe distinct from Sindarin "lo" (flood)?? but honestly I'm not sure, both meanings work here)
> 
> Idh (rest, repose); n. Ita  
> Rille, Itarille – mostly derived from s. “Cenedril” (looking-glass, cened-ril)
> 
> Alpalata - Telerin "alpa" (swan) and "alata" (radiance/reflection; light, as in "alatarielle" (Galadriel)
> 
> Vilverin - Telerin for butterfly
> 
> Volayon - Telerin "vola" (roller/long wave) and Quenya "yon" (son of; same as Sindarin "ion")
> 
> Orna - "Uprising, tall" in both Telerin and Quenya
> 
>  
> 
> Telerin from [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XWi7KtPLtjnCO8HtnnpG8Fgg_C-Whb2H8YFxgXu4jYQ/preview)


End file.
